


Hindsight is 20/20 (but foresight is almost as good)

by hopeless_aromantic



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Other, Post canon, Rating for swearing and innuendo, Reader-Insert, background danbrey, background sternclay, gender neutral reader, slight AU, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26393251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_aromantic/pseuds/hopeless_aromantic
Summary: The town of Kepler, West Virginia is a sleepy, secretive little place. Smack-dab in the middle of the National Radio Quiet Zone, you can’t imagine it gets much traffic; especially when their main tourist business—skiing—has been shut down for the past year and a half due to an apparently catastrophic landslide. All that to say: it’s not a place you would have seen yourself moving to; not if it weren’t for your research. But, as mystery unfolds around you, you may just end up glad you did.
Relationships: Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue: First Time I Saw Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to this beast of a project! Before we begin, I just have a couple things to say!  
> Number 1: this fic is basically my own personal self insert fantasy. It’s something I’ve been thinking about since *checks calendar* like, August of last year, but I finally wanted to write it out. Having said that, it’s a little more personal than the rest of my Indrid x Reader fics—I usually make an effort to make the “reader” character a sort of blank slate: someone who is easy to project on; but this time, it’s a little more... well, me. It won’t be highly specific or anything, but they have a little more personality. They’re a scientist, they’re fairly shy, and they have a lot of my fears and insecurities. That being said, I hope they’re still relatable, for the most part.  
> Number 2: this takes place post canon, but it is a slight AU. I mostly took liberties on the last couple of episodes of Amnesty: the biggest change is that Duck and Minerva aren’t together, they remain friends and Minerva is still a mentor figure to Duck. Also Beacon is still there. Because I like writing him. Love you, McElroys, but my canon now.  
> Number 3: This fic will include a lot of my own headcanons about Indrid’s past. I know we all have our own hcs, so just be aware! (In summary, me @ griffin: i’ve taken the liberty of sprucing up your boy!)
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this journey, and I sincerely hope you enjoy the story!

Ironically enough, Indrid Cold has never been certain of his future. As a child, it seemed his life would be spent cloistered in the capital, with his planet falling apart around him. As a young man, he dreamed of being a hero; of finding the solution that would heal his world, endear him to his peers, and the rest of Sylvain. But everything changed when he fled to Earth; his future suddenly full of wild freedom and possibility—followed closely by disappointment, disaster, and grief. He spent half a century of trying to save everyone, and it’s been half a century since he gave up on that dream. And then—the apocalypse; or rather, _nearly_ the apocalypse. Once again, the future was full of new possibilities, and Indrid was adrift.

With the defeat of the Quell and Retribution, Indrid’s mind swirled with visions—every single one of them new, different, _hopeful_. His home planet saved, his Goddess returned, all of Kepler privy to the knowledge of alien worlds and cryptids living among them...

It was Mama who asked him to stay. She told him he would always have a home at Amnesty Lodge, if he wanted it. And for quite possibly the first time, Indrid was tired of running. 

For once, Indrid was going to stay.

That’s when the visions began. They were subtle, at first: he saw a face, a smile, a newcomer. A... friend.

Once a portal was possible again—after coordination between Sarah Drake and Minerva and Sylvain Herself—Indrid decided to cross through the gate. He felt it was only right that he help with the rebuilding efforts, for a little while; and, he was ready to formally retire as Seer—to hand in his resignation, as it were.

Thus, he busied himself, and over the months, the visions began to change. Indrid saw that smile nearly every day now. Saw a hand, laced in his. And as time wore on, he became quite sure that what he was seeing... was love.

Well. The _possibility_ of love, at least.

Indrid knows that his clairvoyance is not perfect. He knows the way the future can change on a whim, the way those hundreds of threads of possibility in his mind twist together, fray apart, and disappear entirely—but that didn’t stop him from filling sketchbook after sketchbook with the same face, the same bright eyes, the same blushing cheeks. It didn’t stop him from _hoping_ , even if he knew it was a dangerous game.

And so the days passed, and Indrid ached.

\-----

Today, Indrid is nervous. More than nervous, actually: he’s practically _panicking_ , his gaze to the future as scene after familiar scene appears beneath his practiced fingers, charcoal on paper in the shape of the visions he’s been seeing for months. The visions that finally, _finally_ begin today.

Spring has come to Kepler, West Virginia—and with it, a warm spell that allows Indrid to turn down some of his space heaters, bring out his worn old folding chair, and sit outside in the sunlight. Barclay and Joseph had brought him a planter and some young plants last week—and between that and the obnoxious lawn gnome given to him by Aubrey (because it, quote, “matched his vibes,”) he’s beginning to build a bit of a yard for himself. A breeze blows by, making his wind chimes tinkle cheerily.

What if his visions are wrong? What if this future doesn’t come true? What if it all disappears at the last moment? After all, nothing has the power to devastate quite like the _possibility_ of love and happiness. 

He looks down, and the sketch he’s just finished sends a pang through his heart. _A kiss_. Arms wrapped around his neck, perfect lips pressed to his, a deep blush rendered in shaded charcoal—he closes his sketchbook with a growing warmth in his cheeks.

He’s not sure that he’s ever been so invested in a possible future before now, and there’s every chance that it could leave him heartbroken.

But... if he has any chance at happiness, it starts now. Or, rather, it starts in... about ten minutes.

He stands with a stretch and an uncomfortable-sounding pop of his shoulders.

Ready or not, today is the day. And Indrid Cold has a phone call to make.


	2. Welcome to Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving to a new town always feels like a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s exposition time! Chapter title is from Welcome to Mystery by the Plain White T’s. (which isn’t on my indrid playlist but. The vibes fit)

**Act I, Chapter 1: Welcome to Mystery**

Rumbling along down the (poorly-maintained) road with a small U-haul hitched to your shitty old pickup, you can’t help but have a little bit of doubt about your current life plan. The work, of course, seems too good to be true: to have your own research project, with enough funding, without even being tied to a professor at a university? It’s practically unheard of—obviously you would have taken the opportunity no matter where you were being stationed! But... you really weren’t expecting to spend the next few months in the National Radio Quiet Zone. You suppose this is the price you pay for wanting to get in with the Parks Department and the Forestry Service—having the government stamp of approval on your resume means that you’ll be able to go _anywhere_ after this. Do you _like_ the system? No. But you _will_ play the game, for greater opportunities later on.

It’s been miles since your car’s radio went to static, your cell phone service disappeared, and the frequent buzzing of all your notifications stopped, but your music plays on. Investing in offline was a necessary choice; otherwise, you’d be sitting in silence as the sun sets in your rearview mirror, thinking about your new home: Kepler, West Virginia.

Kepler is a tiny town; one whose only claim to fame is its proximity to the Greenbank Telescope, only a 20 minute drive away—and, of course, its position right in the middle of the Monongahela National Forest. It doesn’t matter that you had been hoping to be assigned to Yellowstone, or Yosemite, or Glacier... a national forest is a national forest; and national forests need geological surveyors. (You’re trying not to be too sour about the fact that you’re being sent alone, while the Yellowstone team is 10 members strong, but you did say you wanted to experience some peace and quiet, so really, that’s on you.)

But it’s fine—really! You can make the best of the situation! It’s still the perfect job, and you might not be the most social person out there, but you’re sure you can find friends, even in such a small town! It’s going to be amazing! You crank the volume on your playlist.

And your engine gives a concerning sputter.

And then a louder, even _more_ concerning cough.

And then a very, _very_ concerning clang.

The second you see a puff of white smoke from beneath the hood, you cut the engine.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

You pop the hood and throw open the driver’s side door, practically tripping over the uneven asphalt as you mutter, “no, no, no, _no!_ ” When your fingers close around the hood latch, you pull the it up and peer beneath, hoping beyond hope that the problem will be obvious—you know enough about this thing to have kept it running since you bought it used several years ago, but engine trouble isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse. You thought for sure this old bucket of bolts would hold together for another year... but you should’ve figured this would happen, with your luck and all that.

The smoke is definitely coming from... part of the engine. You wrack your brain. White smoke means... any number of things, really. A blown gasket? Can you fix a blown gasket? What even is a gasket? 

You groan into your hands. Yeah, you’re fucked.

Clambering back into the driver’s seat, you rifle around for the directions you printed from mapquest (what is it, 2005?) and the actual, legitimate paper map of west virginia that you bought just in case. You estimate that you crossed into the quiet zone about 20 miles ago, which means that you’re still about 20 miles from Kepler. The last gas station you saw was over half an hour ago, so you can’t be far from the next one on this stretch of road, right?

That’s great. You’re going to have to get out and walk.

But with the sun sinking below the horizon...

Somehow, you’re pretty sure that walking _alone_ —along this forested road—at _night_ —would be the worst idea you’ve ever had. What a headline that would be: Idiot Twenty-Something Murdered On Forest Road.

The spiritual successor to _man door hand hook car door_.

Well. Someone is going to have to pass by. You can flag them down. And if no one stops? You can start walking in the morning.

\-----

Minutes pass.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty-five.

You see no one.

\-----

It has been exactly one hour and three minutes, and not a _single_ other car has passed you. No headlights in the distance, no other human beings, no _nothing_.

In your frustration, you lay your head against the steering wheel, letting the horn ring out loudly around you. It echoes against the hills. Stupid West Virginia. Stupid National Radio Quiet Zone. Stupid Kepler. Your eyes are brimming with tears, and you turn your face to the side, staring listlessly out into the trees and the darkness.

Suddenly, your nerves are set alight. You bolt upright, ice shooting through your veins as something just beyond the treeline catches your attention. A... red light?

No. _Two_ red lights. That look... suspiciously like... eyes? Your heart gives a painful lurch. 

That’s ridiculous, it could be anything. The tapetum lucidum of a deer’s eyes, probably. Although... red?

Just as quickly as you’ve registered them, the lights disappear. That makes you even _more_ uneasy—if that’s even possible—and you frantically double check that your doors are locked. Although, if there’s something out there with big red eyes, you’re not so sure a locked door is gonna stop it if it decides to... what? Attack you?

You laugh nervously. What are you even thinking? Honestly, you’re probably just seeing things. You’ve been reading too many stories about ghosts and demons and monsters—do you seriously believe that the _Mothman_ is watching you from the forest, or something?

Now there’s a thought—maybe you should go out into the woods and ask the monsters for help. Maybe the Mothman can fix a blown gasket. You laugh again, imagining yourself yelling up into the trees, “Mothman! Are you good with cars? Also, wanna get dinner sometime?” Your laughter gets louder, and you give a little snort. _When in Rome, do as the Romans—when in West Virginia, have a meet cute with the Mothman?_

A horn sounds from down the road, and you jump. Shit, now’s your chance! All thoughts about demon eyes from the forest are forgotten as you hastily unlock your car and climb out of your truck, waving at the oncoming headlights, and as the car draws nearer, you realize that—what luck!—it’s a tow truck!

It slows to a stop as it approaches, pulling up beside you. The window rolls down, revealing the driver: a portly middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a patch on his work shirt that reads “Johnson’s towing.”

With a heavy drawl, the man, whose name is probably Johnson, says, “got a call about a broken down car ‘round here, suppose that’s you?”

_Got a call?_ You look around. No other cars have passed you by, and there aren’t any houses or businesses nearby, right? Unless... you surreptitiously look over your shoulder, toward the forest. But you’re being ridiculous. There’s probably a house on one of the neighboring hills with a view of this road. 

Well. No use looking a gift horse in the mouth. You shrug. “Unless there’s another car broken down just up the road, I guess so!”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “Aw’right, lemme pull around and I’ll get’cha hitched up.”

\-----

Johnson isn’t the talkative sort, you find as he secures your car to his truck and beckons you to the driver’s seat without so much as a sentence of small talk; only asking “Kepler?” and grunting when you tell him yes—you’re moving into your new apartment in the morning. He doesn’t ask why you’re moving to Kepler, or where you’ll be living (though you suppose that’s a blessing—it’s not like it’s any of his business), he simply stares straight ahead at the dark road as he drives the near half-hour into town.

Finally, as the street lights grow closer to one another, he speaks again. “Where ya stayin’ tonight, kid?”

Ah. That would be important to know. “I, uh, was just planning on pulling into the first motel I saw,” you confess. 

He grunts again. “Only place open nowadays ‘s Amnesty Lodge—I’ll give ‘em a call for ya. ‘M sure they’ve got an open room.”

“Oh! Thank you!” 

“Yer pretty lucky, they just finished all the road repairs leadin’ up to Resort Row. Big ol’ landslide came through ‘bout a year ‘n a half ago. Fer a while, the funicular was the only way topside.”

Oh, right. The landslide. Skiing—and thus, all the ski lodges—were shut down this year. You’re surprised it didn’t make national news, with the size of it and all, but then again, Kepler isn’t exactly a highly populated area. You wonder how this Amnesty Lodge has stayed open, if the tourism business was lacking. But, again, gift horses and mouths. You’re just glad you’ll have a warm bed tonight.

When you get to the towing lot, Johnson leaves to call the lodge, letting you get your things together—at least, what you need for the night. Your little U-haul will have to stay with your car for now; but Johnson says the mechanic in town does quick work. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.

Before you know it, a van is pulling up to pick you up, and you’re shaking hands with a large—but kindly—lumberjack man who introduces himself as Barclay, the cook at Amnesty Lodge. With his beard and flannel, he looks more like he should be chopping down trees than spending his time baking; but you know better than to judge others by their appearances. You introduce yourself in turn, and he takes your bag.

It takes another fifteen minutes or so to drive all the way around town to Resort Row, and beyond that to Amnesty Lodge. Luckily, Barclay is more talkative than Johnson, and he tells you about some of the buildings in town as you pass them. City Hall is down that road, and there’s Leo’s General Store—that’s where you’ll be getting most of your groceries. St. Francis hospital is the tallest building in town, and down the hill from the road you can see the Greenbrier River before Barclay takes the turn onto Resort Row.

“So,” Barclay smiles, only briefly taking his eyes off the road to look at you, “what brings you to Kepler? We haven’t exactly had a lot of tourists lately.”

“Oh, actually I’ll be living here for a while,” you tell him. “At least the next six months, maybe more. Depends on my project—I’m doing some geological surveys for the Forest Service. Charting seismic activity, dating different rocks, stuff like that.”

Barclay nods, polite even though you can tell he doesn’t have much interest in rocks. You’re used to that, though—not many people are. You didn’t even think you would be, before you switched tracks in college, but a stray research project turned you from biology to geology, and before you knew it, you were fascinated by gneiss and schist. Not that you don’t still have an interest in the life sciences... sometimes, you wonder if you should have gone into entomology instead.

The van rumbles over a stretch of uneven road. This must be the area that was recently repaired; the asphalt is new, and you can see on the sides of the road where the landslide covered the vegetation, only now starting to come back, a community in primary succession. 

Your curiosity gets the best of you. “That landslide that happened a while back, do y’all know what caused it?”

It seems as if Barclay grips the steering wheel harder at that. His voice is a bit gruffer, a bit shakier when he says, “rain and erosion, they think. Whatever causes any landslide, I guess.”

His shift in demeanor leaves no more room for questions, and you shrink into yourself with a frown, mentally making a note that this could be a sore point for locals. Maybe people were hurt in it... although you remember reading that no one was killed, at least.

A couple minutes later though, he’s back to the polite kindness that you’ve seen from him so far as he announces, “here we are! Welcome to Amnesty Lodge.”

Sure enough, he’s pulling into the parking lot of a cozy-looking chalet with a log cabin feel to it. The windows of the main building—the lobby, you assume—are lit with cheery yellow light, and you can see a couple of people horsing around inside. Two guest wings branch off from the lobby, larger rectangular buildings that must contain a couple dozen rooms. A wooden plank path runs from the parking lot, through a garden to the front door, over which hangs a pretty, freshly-painted wooden sign that says _Amnesty Lodge_. It’s incredibly charming: homey, even from the outside, and you find yourself a little more at ease just at the thought of sleeping here for the night.

Barclay takes your bag and leads you through the garden to the main entrance, shouldering open the thick, heavy door with ease and holding it open as you cross the threshold, letting warmth and light envelop you. 

The first thing you notice is how lively it is. You had seen a couple people through the window, but now you realize there are nearly a dozen: a couple of women around your age (one very punk, the other very hippie), joking around with someone in snowboarding garb; a woman playing the piano in the corner; two men playing chess, one older—maybe in his seventies—and one younger; and a group in what looks like matching biker’s jackets hunched around one of their phones, watching a video intently. And all of them turn to stare as Barclay strides in with you in tow, seemingly startled by the fact that someone new has arrived. An older woman comes around the corner as Barclay leads you to the lobby counter.

The woman smiles as she approaches. You would estimate her to be in her fifties, if only for the wrinkles around her dark eyes and the gray in her long, braided hair, but she looks strong and hearty, if a little bit hardened by the years. 

“Welcome t’ Amnesty Lodge,” she says, holding out her hand for you to shake. Her grip is firm, her hands callused. “I’m the owner here. Name’s Madeline Cobb, but you can call me Mama. Damn near everybody else does.”

“Nice to meet you,” you smile back at her, and introduce yourself in turn. The activity around you has resumed, albeit quieter than before, and you can tell that just about everyone in this room is listening to your conversation.

It doesn’t seem to bother Mama, though. “How long ya stayin’ for?” She asks.

“Two nights, I think. I’m moving here—to Kepler, I mean—but my car broke down on the way.”

She nods. “Well, sorry your first day had to start off with car trouble, but for what it’s worth, welcome t’Kepler.”

“Thank you,” you tell her, and you mean it. You didn’t miss the way whispers broke out when you said you were moving here, but Mama, at least, doesn’t seem like the gossipy sort.

Mama turns to the group whispering together. “Jake,” she says, “care to show our guest to their room?”

The person in snowboarding gear stands up with a salute and says, “sure thing, Mama!” And you’re struck by his almost-Californian accent. With his bleach-blond curls, winsome smile, and tanned complexion, he looks more like he should be surfing waves than shredding powder—but then again, you’re not exactly from around here either. 

“Oh!” Says Barclay, “I know it’s getting late, but would you like something to eat before you turn in for the night? I can bring it to your room.”

At the mention of food, your stomach gives a loud grumble—loud enough that you’re sure everyone else heard it, too. As much as you’d like to collapse in bed, you have to admit you’re starving. So you sheepishly nod. “That would be great, actually; thanks!”

As he ducks into the kitchen, you follow Jake up the curving staircase to the left of the lobby. He must have just gotten back from a day of snowboarding, you think, since the slopes only recently reopened. But why is he still wearing all his gear? He even still has his goggles on—though they’re pushed up on top of his head to reveal his startling blue eyes. Maybe he got sidetracked before he could change.

“So you’re moving here,” he says lightly, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Not many people come _to_ Kepler. What brings you?”

“Work,” you tell him honestly. “I’m gonna be doing surveys in the Monongahela forest.”

“Oh, rad!” He says, without a shred of irony. And then, more predictably: “you ever snowboard?”

You laugh. “No, I haven’t. But I wouldn’t mind trying to learn.” You don’t mention the fact that the only time you ever tried to ski, you nearly ended the day with a concussion from the bunny slope. You’ll take what friends you can get—and if Jake wants to bond over snowboarding, you can learn snowboarding.

“You should totally come with us sometime—me and the hornets. We do stunts out there, but we could totally teach you the basics.”

“That sounds like fun!” You don’t ask who the hornets are, figuring they’re some sort of... snowboarding club, maybe? but this seems like the sort of olive branch to friendship that you can’t afford to pass up. 

You turn into the corridor, and Jake stops at the second door on the left to unlock the room for you. “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to holler,” he grins and hands you the keys. “Barclay’ll probably have your dinner ready in ten!” And with a hang-ten, he heads back downstairs, and you push open the door.

The bedroom is just as cozy as the rest of the lodge: it’s decorated in the same quaint log cabin style, and the full sized bed is covered in a red quilted bedspread that beckons to your exhausted body. It’s not enough to override your hunger, though, and you have to at least stay presentable for ten minutes until you have your food.

So you unpack your small bag of toiletries and clothes, making yourself at home as best you can. You open the curtains, but of course, you can’t see very far in the dark. You can’t wait to see the view of the trees in the daylight... the Monongahela really is beautiful, and despite your griping about placement, you’re very excited to have this job. There’s so much to learn about the area—parts of the Appalachian Mountains are _Pangea_ -level old, and you’d love to study the way the different formations come together...

The knock at the door startles you out of your geology-induced daydream, but the smell of food wafting in has you on your feet, eager for a hot meal. 

You thank Barclay profusely when he hands you the plate—fresh bread and a bowl of French onion soup—and compliment him on the way it smells, assuring him that you’re certain it will taste just as wonderful. 

And it is the best French onion soup you’ve ever had. You would kill for this recipe. And you will absolutely praise Barclay for it in the morning. But now that your stomach is full, you can’t fight the drowsiness. You’ve had a long day, after all.

You change into your pajamas quickly, and all but collapse in bed.

And finally, as your head hits the pillow, you exhale.

Tonight started out pretty rocky, you’ll admit. And you’re still puzzling over how that tow truck driver knew where you were. But, you suppose, all’s well that ends well—and you’ve even begun to make friends in your new home already! You’re still a bit nervous, sure, but the friendliness of the folks you met this evening eases your mind a bit, and you don’t find it difficult to drift off. 

The last thing you remember thinking about before you fall asleep are those lights from the forest. Maybe if you weren’t so sleepy, you’d recall them with anxiety or fear... but in the comfort of the Lodge’s plush bed, those emotions seem so far away... you can’t even remember why you felt them in the first place.

\-----

That night, you have strange dreams: whispered secrets, a sense of unease—but as quickly as they come, they are forgotten, and your sleep is peaceful and deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for dropping the prologue and then going MIA for 4 months :// a lot has been happening in my life! I moved (again), and got a new job! But I haven’t been writing much. Rest assured that I am still out here loving Indrid cold with all my heart, and I still plan to write more fanfic!! Hope y’all are doing well!! As always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://shmothman.tumblr.com/), or join our discord, Indridfuckers Inc. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hi my name is Sef and I love Indrid Cold with my whole entire HEART! If you’d like to talk to me and other mothman lovers, you should join the [Indridfuckers Inc.](https://discord.gg/pYhkfFv) discord server! (Please note that the server is ages 15+) All the chapter titles are lyrics from songs on my Indrid/Self Insert playlist, which you can find [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6lWUxlSscfPtXkUND6z22z?si=x-vux6deRrWRvGedi82v6g)! And, last but not least, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://extraterrestrial-apis.tumblr.com/)! Feel free to come say hi, or gush about mothman, or whatever!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you’re enjoying the story so far! <3


End file.
